


homecoming

by verity



Series: sweet dreams are made of this [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Developing Relationship, Friendship, Graduation, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Porn with Feelings, Relationship Negotiation, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 03:09:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beside them, Lena clears her throat. "Stiles's alpha came up for Renn Fayre," she says, grinning. "<i>And</i> Stiles's girlfriend."</p><p>Stiles kicks her under the table. "Shut up, it's not—" </p><p>"Oh, you." Jo gives him a fond smile. "You're moving home, huh? Finally going to let them put a ring on it?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_rocket_frost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_rocket_frost/gifts), [whiskey_in_tea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskey_in_tea/gifts), [darthjamtart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthjamtart/gifts), [rubykatewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubykatewriting/gifts).



> Thanks to Ashe, Clio, darthjamtart, and Scout for all their encouragement and support. <3 fiveyearmission supplied the joke in Stiles's thesis title and suggested that Jen and Derek come to Renn Fayre, while darthjamtart and Flourish also fielded my many, many questions about Reed at length and supplied pictures. Any errors that remain are my own.
> 
> So much love to everyone who's joined in ot3 squee with me on tumblr & twitter these past few weeks!
> 
> content note: recreational drug use (largely offscreen)

Jen kisses about fourteen people on the way to the bonfire.

Stiles has never seen her kiss anybody but Derek, ever. Not even when everybody was trying to wake Isaac with true love's kiss (Cora took an hour to work herself up to it). He watches, transfixed, as Jen makes her way through the crowd to reach him, where he's standing, thesis in hand.

"Looks like I got here right in time," she says, squeezing his shoulder.

 _Werewolf Bar Mitzvah: Jews and Werewolves in the Middle Ages_ is heavy in his hand, 137 pages long in 12pt Times New Roman. Stiles gives it one last look: he feels like they've become buddies over the last year. Maybe this is what it feels like to give birth. He reaches down to lace his fingers through Jen's before he makes the last few strides toward the fire.

Everything's slow and a little blurry, now: he and Lena started drinking this morning—her vodka spiked with wolfsbane—well before Jen and Derek got here. Now his mouth is sweet and sharp with cheap champagne, clothes and hair sticky with it. The fire in front of him smells chemical, grey smoke mixed with flying ash and confetti. Stiles lets go of Jen to toss his thesis in, to watch it smolder, white pages giving way to black char before the flames burst through. "I feel like I'm watching Dido on her pyre," he says.

Jen tugs at his hand. "Come on," she says. "Let's give someone else a turn."

—

On the way back, Stiles kisses Nicki and Rajiv and Lena and a few people he vaguely recognizes from class or the dorms, sloppy and overexcited. It's not until they're at the edge of the crowd and he's ducked down to let Jen straighten his laurels that she kisses him, one hand cupped over his ear, the tips of her fingers still pressing against the plastic leaves. The kiss is quick, warm, close-mouthed: from anyone else, unremarkable.

Before Stiles can react, someone behind him showers them with champagne, foam sloshing over Stiles's head. He blinks, pulls back to rub his eyes (that shit fucking _stings_ ), ready to—but it's just Banji, his roommate from freshman year, who plants one on Stiles's cheek affectionately and waves at Jen. "Congrats, bro," he says, and then he's off, thesis in hand, running towards the bonfire.

"Congrats," Jen echoes, smiling up at Stiles. He lets her pull him onward, until they reach Derek, who's looking at them with an expression that makes Stiles feel weak at the knees. Which is—he just saw Derek, like, three hours ago—it's ridiculous, really.

Derek meets them in the middle, brings one hand up to cup Stiles's neck while he kisses him, slowly and thoroughly; Jen's still holding his hand.

—

Stiles lives in one of the rambling houses southeast of campus, teeming with undergrads and hand-me-down furniture. The Palace has been in student hands since the '80s, so there's permanent grime between the tiles on the kitchen floor, scuffed baseboards and dented doorjambs, and everything upholstered has a heady olfactory patina of weed. Derek wrinkles his nose when he enters the door, and—God, Stiles should have thought this through, should have agreed when Jen offered to get them a hotel room—

A small hand on his back propels him forward; he almost trips over the area rug. "Scott warned us," Jen says, sounding amused. "We'll be okay. You're upstairs, right?"

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Uh—this way."

The stairs are narrow and dark, the house deserted. Everyone else is still at Renn Fayre, celebrating or working Karma Patrol, like Stiles will be doing tomorrow morning so he can party later. His room is at the back of the house, with a big window overlooking the haphazard container garden and picnic table in the yard. He has a lofted twin bed with a sleeper couch underneath that folds out to a queen-size mattress and takes up most of the room. When Stiles inherited the room from Felix, he hadn't expected to use it much, but he's hosted Scott and Allison and half his friends for a night or two, enough that he's gotten used to shoving everything he owns in his closet or just unfolding the metal frame on top of the textbooks and dirty laundry that inevitably migrate onto the floor.

"I put on fresh sheets," he says, flicking the light switch. "And—I bought pillows. New ones. They're nice."

Derek laughs, and Stiles whirls around, ready to shut down whatever stupid comment—but Derek's face is open, lit up with a smile, something that Stiles doesn't ever think he'll get used to. He reaches forward to take Derek's hand, draw him into the two-foot gap between mattress and closet door. "That's, um," Derek says, ducking his head. "You didn't have to."

"Oh, you did." Jen shuts the door behind them, drops the hook of the latch into the eye on the back of the door. "Where should we put—?"

"Under the bed," Stiles says sheepishly. "There's—you can just shove everything else under there back, I'll deal with it later."

When he invited then up for Renn Fayre—well, let Jen invite herself and Derek—Stiles was so mired in his thesis and midterms that he hadn't really thought through how it would work. Of course they'd stay with him, they'd never been to Portland, never seen his life up here. Scott and his dad weren't coming up until commencement, so there'd just be this long week of celebration and moral support for orals and getting fucked out of his mind, easy at that. In practice, Stiles is still kind of drunk and tired, and the frame is creaking ominously beneath Derek's weight.

"Stop—you're thinking too much," Derek says while Jen pulls her t-shirt over her head. "Come to bed."

—

Stiles doesn't, not right away. He has to shower off the champagne and sweat and glitter, crawls into the fold-out bed while he waits for Jen and Derek to rotate through the tiny bathroom at the head of the stairs. Jen joins him first, tucking her head beneath his chin, hair spilling over his outstretched arm in damp tendrils. She smells like lavender, probably Maura's huge bottle of Doctor Bronner's that lives at the bottom of the shower. "You have to be up at 8, right?" she murmurs against his chest. "I set an alarm for 7."

"You're the best," he says, putting his other arm around her waist to pull her closer.

When Derek joins them, the bed frame makes a horrible dying noise, but it stays up. Derek scoots toward them in the middle cautiously. He holds position there for a long minute before he stretches an arm over both of them, fingers running up Stiles's arm. Stiles is achingly conscious of them right until the moment when he tips into a sound, dreamless sleep.

—

In the morning, Stiles wakes up to Jen hitting snooze on her phone. Not the sound, but the movement of Jen rolling over, across the empty space where Derek should be. "Shh, it's okay," she says to Stiles's confused rumble. "He just went for a run. What time do you actually need to be awake?"

"7:45, probably," Stiles says. He yawns, stretches. The upper support bar of the frame is digging into his side and, yeah, he has some serious morning wood going on that he was hoping—but it's not, this is not happening in this bed, he's realizing that, he does not want Derek and Jen to fuck him literally into the floor.

Jen's gaze flicks up to the lofted bed above them. "You want to go up there? Get a nap in on something that's not a torture rack?"

"I'm sorry," Stiles groans. "So sorry."

"Go on," she says, poking him in the side.

His actual mattress is several years newer than the rest of the furniture that came with this room. Lying down feels like sinking into a cloud; Stiles wants to cry. He scoots to the side when Jen climbs up after him. She can't exactly sprawl on the twin mattress, but her whole body relaxes against Stiles's, pliant and soft. "So good," she says. "Christ."

"I _know_." Stiles shifts, trying to give her more room, but that just ends up with his dick pressed against her hip and, ugh, he's never going to get back to sleep at this rate.

Jen trails a hand down his side, stopping just above the waistband of his boxers. "Do you—do you want to sleep?"

"Um," Stiles says. His dick stirs, the traitor. "Without Derek?"

"He doesn't mind," Jen says, nails scraping his hip.

They've—they've always done it together, when Stiles joins them, although they hang out in pairs all the time when Stiles is home. Jen and Derek have their own thing, and Stiles—yeah, so maybe he's been jealous of them, both of them, that they get to have that and each other. Thinking about them separately seemed disloyal. But this—Stiles thinks about it for a moment, how Derek's going to smell this on both of them the moment he comes back, the way he gets off on just watching them sometimes, how he'll jerk off on Stiles while Jen fucks him, and—"If you're sure," he says. "If it's okay." He thumbs the hem of her t-shirt—it must be Derek's, actually, it's huge and falls almost to her knees. "What do you want to do?"

"Mmm," she says, nosing against his collarbone, hand pushing down beneath his boxers, just shy of his dick. "Fuck me. We've never done that before."

Stiles draws back to stare at her. Oh, he's fucked her ass plenty of times, but that's not what she means. "Is this supposed to be some kind of graduation present? Because—it's weird, okay. I thought—you do that stuff with Derek, the, um, the kissing and, the stuff that's not with your butt—"

"The stuff that's not with my butt?" Jen raises her eyebrows.

"Yes," Stiles says, summoning all of his dignity. "The stuff that's not with your butt."

Jen lowers her eyes, hums for a moment. "Do you want to talk to Derek about it first?"

"Derek and _talking_ ," Stiles says after a short pause.

"He's getting better at it," she says.

Stiles glances at his own alarm clock, the beat-up digital one secured with masking tape to the 2x4 safety rail that runs around the bed. The clock says it's 7:20, so it's really 7:15. Unless Derek's decided to make a circuit around the entire city, he'll probably be back soon. Before they're done. Which—he looks up to Jen again, her earnest face, and that's what settles him. Stiles doesn't want any secrets between the three of them, but that's not what this is. "Does he _want_ us—to?"

"You don't even know," she says, hand shifting against his thigh. "He—"

"Okay," Stiles says. "He's going to tell me about _that_."

—

There's a box of condoms at the head of the bed, wedged between the mattress and the wall. Stiles lets Jen roll one on him after they ditch their clothes; he was going to get her off first, had his fingers down in her soft curls when she said, "Oh, I'm good, don't worry." Now she's climbing on him, settling her thighs outside his, and—

"Holy crap," Stiles says faintly. He puts his hands on Jen's hips to steady her as she sinks down on him, cunt hot and tight around his dick. Why haven't they been doing this the whole time? Stiles loves this, that's the thing—he digs being Jen's freaky fantasy sex boyfriend, but he _loves_ cunts, okay, getting someone hot and ready first before pushing inside, he loves it as much as he loves getting fucked: it's amazing. Between Jen and Derek, Stiles has everything he's ever wanted and more than he can imagine.

For example—this, Jen riding him, letting him cup her breasts while she kisses him, too eager to be gentle, slipping him some tongue while she slams down on him. Stiles tries to give as good as he's getting, arching his hips up to meet her, dropping a hand between them to rub her clit. She's panting into his mouth, so wet he can feel it on his thighs. "You don't even _know_ ," she says, all heat and hunger.

"Oh, I'm getting the idea," Stiles says.

They beat Derek to the finish line.

—

"Morning," Derek says, resting his chin on the top rung of the ladder.

"Morning," Stiles says. He turns his head to peer down at Derek, too fucked out to be anxious anymore. It's 7:37 now and he has to be up in 8 minutes, which is really a shame, especially since Jen's 99% asleep now. "Have a good run?"

Derek reaches up, runs a finger along Stiles's bottom lip. "Not as good as you," he says.

—

"Are you hungover?" Tamicka asks sympathetically, passing him a gallon jug of water and a bag of those fucking disgusting cinnamon raisin mini-bagels.

"Does a sex hangover count?" Stiles says.

—

Stiles splits a brownie and a bowl of Lucky Charms with Lena for breakfast, then hang around the quad until it's time for the big feast at noon. That's where they run into Sam and Jo, his freshman year hookup buddies, who've been together for years in a hilarious footnote to Stiles's threesome-laden life. Lena and Jo lived together last year, so they're eager to catch up, trading summer plans and gossip and chili-dog bites; Sam eats their pesto bowl with gusto.

"What are you doing?" Stiles asks them. "After graduation, I mean? Ugh, I feel like I haven't seen you in ages."

Sam shrugs and swallows their mouthful of broccoli. "Hanging around here for a while—the bookstore's taking me full time for the summer, anyway. Jo's going to UO for chem, so I might move down to Eugene. You?"

"Uh." Stiles takes another bite of his tofu-thing, because, _why_ did he— this isn't really a conversation he wants to have with Sam. "I'm going to apply to PhD programs next year, but—my dad, you know, right, and—"

"You're going back to Beacon Hills," Sam says, fork pausing mid-noodle-twirl.

Stiles dodges their eyes. "Home sweet home," he says.

Sam, Jo, and Lena are the only friends he has here who know about werewolves. Lena's a year younger than him, from a pack near Boise; Sam's older brother took the bite when Sam was in high school, went rogue when his alpha died, got put down and strung up as a warning by one of Allison's cousins. That didn't come up until Sam finally caved and joined Facebook their sophomore year, and since then, things between them and Stiles have been… tense.

Beside them, Lena clears her throat. "Stiles's alpha came up for Renn Fayre," she says, grinning. " _And_ Stiles's girlfriend."

Stiles kicks her under the table. "Shut up, it's not—" He's never called Jen that—it seems kind of presumptuous.

"Oh, you." Jo gives him a fond smile. "You're moving home, huh? Finally going to let them put a ring on it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Stiles says loftily.

Lena snort-laughs so hard she flashes fang. "They're all over you," she says, lisping around her teeth. "You smell like Jen fucked you and Derek drooled on you in his sleep."

"Well, uh, that's fair." Stiles can't help it—he's smiling, too, knowing that he smells like them, that Jen and Derek have probably fucked in his bed by now, marking Stiles's room like they've marked him. He was always going to go back to Beacon Hills, in the end—to pack and family and home, to late-night trips to the 24-hour donut place and lazy afternoons playing video games with Scott. Stiles has been trying not to think too far beyond that, though, to the rambling house Derek's spent the last two years fixing up with all its empty bedrooms nestled under the eaves. Which is—Stiles has had a lot on his mind, okay? His thesis, his life here, teeming with friends and weird vegetables and endless papers. It's just—it's all a lot.

"You should come to brunch at our place tomorrow," Jo says, glancing over at Sam. "We've got pancakes, fake meat for vegans, real meat for wolves—"

Sam sighs. "Okay," they say after a moment. "It's—I'd like to meet your alpha, I mean—"

"Derek's a _hottie_ ," Lena says in a stage whisper, leaning over the table. "I was there last Christmas and I saw him with his shirt off like five times—"

"Don't pimp out my boyfriend," Stiles says. Which—feels strange and nice to say, all at once.

—

After an afternoon of trip sitting—Stiles swore off hallucinogens after the shrooms incident freshman year, so he's an old hand by now— and grazing on edibles while Lena braids his hair, Stiles heads back to the Palace to meet up with Derek and Jen before the fireworks start at 9. They've spent the day exploring Portland, avoiding the bacchanal on campus for the most part. Stiles finds Jen in the kitchen with Ziggy and Maura, baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. Derek's—

"Upstairs." Jen gestures with her spatula. "He needed a nap. You know how it is, cities, they're kind of overwhelming for him."

Stiles does not, in fact, know how it is. He's never spent any time with Derek outside Beacon Hills aside from pack trips to Tahoe and the beach, crammed in together for the long rides up and down 80. "Sure," he says anyway.

"You look like you need a nap, too," she says. "Go on. I'll save you some."

"Very funny," Maura says. The cookie jar in the kitchen never stays full for more than a few hours.

Ziggy stretches to grab the parchment paper from the top of the fridge, fingers barely reaching it; he's short, brown, and round, which is the joke behind the nickname he's gone by long as Stiles has known him. "You going to the Toaster after the fireworks?" he asks. "Tim asked me to pick up a keg, but—"

"I don't owe you a keg, we settled that already," Stiles says, rolling his eyes. "Maybe? We'll see."

Jen shoos him away with the spatula. It's like someone's ratted him out for his tendency to steal still-cooling baked goods or something.

—

The couch bed is folded away when Stiles opens the door, the debris on his floor carefully shuffled to the sides to make a clear path from door to seat. Derek's up in the loft bed, eyes closed, but not asleep; his posture's too stiff for that. He probably heard Stiles coming upstairs, or maybe he's just too unsettled in the unfamiliar surroundings to sleep well without Stiles or Jen nearby.

"Hey," Stiles says, bending down to unlaces his hi-tops. He kicks them off by the door next to Derek's boots, tosses his socks vaguely in the direction of the cardboard box he uses as a hamper. "Did you get any rest?"

"Some." Derek's voice is rough, muffled by the pillow. Not one of the new ones, just Stiles's own, with the flannel pillow case he keeps forgetting to change: Derek's so predictable.

Carefully, Stiles climbs up the ladder to join him. He's mostly sobered up by now, but sometimes pot makes him as clumsy as he was before years of run-for-your-life drills that left him settled in his lanky frame. Derek's got his head at the other end of the bed, so Stiles has to crawl up over Derek to see his face, softened from sleep. "Hey," he says again, lowering his head to press his lips against Derek's cheek.

"Mmm," Derek says, turning his head to kiss Stiles on the mouth, warm and slow and easy.

They make out like that for a while, Stiles propped up a little on his elbows, mouths wet and open, tongues brushing against each other, the kind of lazy kissing that's an end in itself. It goes on and on, like the mellow high Stiles spent this afternoon coasting, before it starts to rev him up and he has to struggle to keep his hips still against Derek's, to keep from gasping every time they come up for air. "Do you—" he says, eventually, "Do you want—"

"If you do," Derek says, all solemn, the way he gets about these things.

Stiles takes a deep breath. "Jen and I fucked up here earlier," he says. "I bet you did, too, after I left. You—you like it, when we all smell like each other."

"Yeah." Derek's hands are on Stiles's waist, just under Stiles's shirt and the vest he has layered over it. "We did. I do."

"You like more than that, though." Stiles wants to lean in, get closer, but he resists the temptation: he has to look Derek in the eye to say this. "You want—us, to, um. You want to share?"

"It's not sharing," Derek says, looking up at Stiles like he'd rather look anywhere else. "If you—if we all belong to each other."

Stiles has spent years just—being with them, every time he's home, with the distance between them most of the year always part of it, status quo. He never thought of that gap as something that could have an endpoint, even though he knew Derek and Jen cared about him, he didn't— "Oh," Stiles says, biting his lip, which is puffy and tender from kissing.

Derek brings a hand up to cup Stiles's jaw, thumb brushing against the corner of Stiles's mouth. "Don't hurt yourself," he says.

—

"I used to jerk off thinking about you every night," Stiles moans into Derek's ear, fingers scrabbling on his back while Derek thrusts into him. "Since I was—you can't—"

"I'm _crazy_ about you," Derek growls into his ear. "It's fucking terrifying."

The wood frame of the loft is shuddering beneath them, but Stiles isn't too worried; it's sturdy, it'll hold their weight. Stiles isn't sure how well he's going to hold up, though. He feels like he's being cracked apart as Derek drives into him, the orgasm building deep in him as his balls draw up tight, lungs barely able to draw breath. This is—Stiles's kind of ridiculously, epically in love with with Derek, that's the thing, and he's spent years being mostly content with getting breadcrumbs when he could have been mainlining cake, and—that doesn't make any sense, and it doesn't matter, anyway. This is what he wants, Derek in his arms and Jen in his home, just like this, right here, and right now—it's perfect, perfect, that there's enough of all three of them to go around.

Derek whimpers softly in Stiles's ear when he comes; Stiles draws blood when he follows, nails digging into Derek's back, clinging to him like a life raft.

—

"I saved you cookies," Jen says, plate in hand. "Also, we bought an air mattress. You're going to have a pick up a little in here, though."

"You sure an air mattress is going to hold all three of us?" Stiles says, although he doesn't mind the idea of all of them piled in the middle as the thing gives up the ghost and slowly deflates.

Derek noses the nape of Stile's next, brushes his lips against Stiles's spine. "It'll have to."


	2. Chapter 2

"You're sure about this," Scott says for approximately the thousandth time since they left Portland yesterday. They made the drive up in the Jeep together at the start of Stiles's freshman year, so it seemed right to do it in reverse after graduation. Stiles is already missing Reed, missing Portland, but it's a little easier with Scott at his side and the anticipation of what lies at his journey's end.

Also, fries. They're having lunch at Burger King.

"Uh huh," Stiles says around the mass of half-chewed potato in his mouth. He swallows, almost chokes, coughs. "100%, totally, solid. I told my dad _in person_. You were there!"

"He said he was very proud of you for not moving back in with him," Scott says. "I don't think he, uh, understands—the thing. The threeway thing."

"Threesome," Stiles corrects him. If Stiles calls it the other one, he can't stop thinking about that Lonely Island video with Justin Timberlake and Lady Gaga. "We are now sharing a household and not just banging in super hot positions not even your imagin—"

"Yeah, no, I don't want to imagine that," Scott says hastily.

"And everyone else is going to live there, too," Stiles points out. "I mean, almost everyone, except for you and Allison and Cora and Lydia—"

Lydia's doing her PhD at Caltech, Cora's at USF for med school, and Allison's staying at Stanford for law school, which means that Scott's moving to Palo Alto for the duration. His human development degree and work in the early childhood lab school at UC Davis helped him land a job at a Waldorf preschool with a website like a Benetton Kids ad. While Lydia's probably always going to be a long-distance pack member, the rest of them will be back in Beacon Hills eventually, if not under Derek's roof.

Scott slurps his Mountain Dew loudly. "You've made your point."

"I like them a lot," Stiles says, swirling a chicken strip around in his tub of honey mustard. He doesn't have to explain that to Scott, of course—he's a bro. Bros know. Even if they're deep in denial because of the traumatizing mental images.

"Fine," Scott groans. "You're going to live happily ever and have beautiful children and lots of sex you will _never tell me about_."

Stiles drops his chicken strip to extent his fist for ritual bumping. "I promise."

Of course, Scott's going to hear about everything from Allison after she hears about it from Lydia, but it's the spirit of the fistbump that counts.

—

After letting Scott off at his mom's, Stiles drives out to Derek's house. It's on the other side of the preserve from where his family's house used to be, a gaudy Queen Anne that came with haphazard additions and sloping floors and questionable plumbing. While Derek refuses to paint the house the mauve and lavender shades it wore in its prime, the floors are level now, it's safe to flush the toilets, and the electricity has been brought up to code. Stiles is absurdly fond of it.

Jen moved in last week. They each have their own rooms, because Jen sleeps normal hours, Derek is a werewolf, and Stiles is Stiles. Also, Stiles and Jen need their own spaces—they're not like Derek, who feels like his door has to be open to the pack at any hour, who spent the better part of a year with his bed in the middle of his loft space because—yeah, no matter how many licks Stiles takes, he's not getting to the center of that Tootsie Pop. So he has a room with built-in bookshelves and Jen has a room with bookshelves Derek built himself _and_ a window seat.

Stiles drums his fingers on the steering wheel at stoplights, flicks between stations on the radio, jittery and antsy. This is—this is going to be good, all of them together, not just him and Jen and Derek, but sharing the place with Erica and Isaac and Boyd, mandatory Sunday dinners with Dad and Melissa, visits from the rest of the pack. There's nothing to worry about, not even if he's been going over everything that could possibly go wrong since he dropped Derek and Jen off at the airport in Portland. Right.

—

"Just leave your stuff in the car," Jen says when she opens the door. "Let the supernatural members of this household do the heavy lifting."

Stiles almost drops the huge box of books wedged under his arm on his foot. "Good plan."

The last time he saw the foyer, half the wiring was torn out and there were tarps down everywhere. The walls are still in that sad stage between wallpaper stripping and re-papering, but there's an actual rack for shoes by the door and a little table with a mail organizer on top on the other side of the hall. Stiles sets the box down heavily beside a pair of pink flip-flops and rights himself, almost smacking Jen in the nose.

"Sorry, fuck, are you okay?" he says.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." Jen says, laughing as she looks up at him. Which—oh, this is his cue, isn't it?

Stiles bends down to kiss her, meaning for it to be quick, but she grabs one of his belt loops and pulls him in, opening her mouth: the kiss goes from innocent to dirty in the span of seconds. The dress Jen's wearing is thin and silky, and when he palms her ass he can tell that she's not wearing anything else beneath. "Whoa," he says when he comes up for air. "This—I didn't realize you were, um, _planning_."

Jen steps back, gives him a little room. "You don't have to—I mean, you should—you should settle in, if you want to, right? I know you were on the road for—"

"No, I—I'm good." Stiles clears his throat. "Just—let me run to the bathroom? And then I'll be ready. Completely, totally—"

"I'll be upstairs," Jen says with a wink. "Derek's room."

—

Derek's room wasn't finished when Stiles came home for Christmas—Stiles doesn't remember much about it aside from Derek's dire warnings about rotten floorboards and the fact that it was sunny and big. Which—of course it was going to be big, the fancy master bedroom with its clawfoot tub in the attached bathroom, very alpha-of-the-pack, exactly how Derek likes to look to anyone who doesn't know him well enough to call him on his bullshit. Stiles wasn't sure why Derek felt the need to carry that into his actual house, but—okay, then.

Stiles gets it now, though. Oh, does he get it. Because in the middle of Derek's big room is a very big bed.

The frame is dark, polished wood, with four posts that almost reach the ceiling: there's no room for a raised canopy, but there are rails for curtains, unused now. The mattress is wide and tall and deep, covered in white sheets and a white duvet, and Derek and Jen are lying on top of it. Derek's leaning back against the pillows, fully clothed in a tank top and jeans, but Jen's taken off her dress, lain belly-down diagonally across the mattress because there's more than enough room. Her feet are kicked up in the air, elbows propping her up. From where Stiles has halted on the threshold, Jen's face is hidden by her long hair, but he doesn't need to see it to know her expression: all of her attention is on what must be a really good book.

Derek looks up from what he's reading— _A People's History of the United States_ , of course—like Stiles has surprised him, like he hasn't been listening to every footfall on the stairs. "You're here."

"As evidenced." Stiles gestures toward himself with a flourish. "You are, too. With Howard Zinn."

"He's read that book twice since I've known him," Jen says, unmoved. "I think he thinks it makes him cooler by osmosis."

"Too bad for you, I know better," Stiles says.

There's no way Stiles is going to manage any kind of sexy striptease—experience has taught him better than to try—so he undresses the way he normally does, even though he feels like he's putting on a show. There's nowhere for him to put his discarded clothes, so he drops his shirt on the floor and kicks off his cords and boxers at the foot of the bed before he climbs onto it, crawling forward between them until he can put his head on Derek's chest and play with Jen's hair with one hand.

"Hmm," she says after a minute or two, pulling a post-it from the back of her book and tucking it between the pages to mark her place. "So, I had an idea."

"You have really good ideas." Stiles runs the fingers of his free hand down Derek's inseam, satisfied when Derek's breathing hitches at the contact. "Lay it on me. I'm feeling pretty flexible today."

Jen puts her hand on Stiles's wrist, thumb rubbing against the soft skin on the inside. "Well, Derek and I haven't done anything in this bed yet. It didn't seem fair to start without you."

"That was considerate," Stiles says.

"I thought—maybe we'd tie to you to it," Jen continues. "Christen it properly."

So, there's been some light spanking in Stiles's sex life, and one time Nicki had him tie her up with her collection of filmy scarves, but this isn't really his… genre. "Why?" he says. "I mean—what's it do for you?"

"It's not for us," Derek says, startling Stiles; his voice is calm and even. "It's for you."

"This is your homecoming party," Jen says. "The one where no one gives us five George Foreman grills without gift receipts, which, don't even tell me that's not going to happen, I can see it from a mile away."

"I already have a George Foreman grill," Stiles says. "I got it at a garage sale."

Jen sighs. "And there's number one."

Stiles closes his eyes, takes a moment to feel the steady rise and fall of Derek's chest beneath his head, the soft scratch of Jen's nails against his skin. He trusts them, and he's curious, too: of course he is. "Yes," he says. "Bring out the ropes. I'm game."

—

Jen ties Stiles face-up, square in the middle of the bed, arms and legs anchored to the posts, with enough slack in the rope that he can relax against the mattress but not so much give that he can move freely or draw his limbs back in. "I've got scissors," she says. "Just tell me if you need out, okay? There's—we can do the red, yellow, green thing, do you know that?"

"Yeah," Stiles says. "But, um, I'll probably forget. I'll just—I'll tell you? If it's weird."

"Okay," she says. "Derek? You good?"

Derek's rolled onto his stomach, reaching out just far enough that the tips of his fingers brush Stiles's hip. "Green."

"You've been holding out on me," Stiles says accusingly. "Why didn't I know about the kinky funtimes? _Sharing is caring._ "

Jen crawls over to him, close enough that he doesn't have to crane his head to see her. "We're not holding out on you anymore, are we?" She brushes his bangs back from his forehead, pushes her fingers into his hair.

Stiles tilts his head into her hand. "Well—no."

They're barely touching him, Jen running her fingers through his hair, and Derek's skirting the edge of his hip, but Stiles is painfully aware of each point of contact, every minute movement against his skin. He's so vulnerable like this, belly and throat bared, completely spread out for them—he can't cover himself or pull away, can't do anything but take whatever they give him.

As Jen kisses his neck and Derek moves in to stroke his inner thigh, Stiles starts to get it. He's always thought of the bondage part of kinky sex as, well—punitive, holding you in place so you couldn't pull away from pain, the only distinction between that and the kind of torture Kate Argent put Derek through that it was voluntary. Maybe this is torture, too, but it's a very different kind. Stiles can't dodge their touch, can't squirm away, no matter how gentle or intimate. It's—it makes him self-conscious to be on the end of such tender scrutiny, and it takes long minutes of Derek tracing the muscles of his legs and Jen petting him all over for him to stop being freaked out enough to enjoy it.

"Can I—" Derek says, fingers circling Stiles's dick, _finally_.

"Anything— _yes_ , green, green," Stiles says, shoving up into Derek's grip, then back into Jen's mouth when she bites his neck. After what felt like a geologic era of foreplay, he's going to go off in like two seconds, but he is on board for that, okay, he is ready for whatever Jen and Derek would like to dish up.

Then Derek replaces his hand with his mouth, all hot, eager suction, and Stiles comes so hard he almost passes out.

—

Everything afterward is a blur: getting fucked by each of them in turn, Jen warming Stiles up for Derek with her fingers, Derek taking him apart so slowly that Stiles is sobbing by the time he comes for the second time. Then Stiles eats Jen out, keeps going until she's shaking from a third orgasm and pulls away, only to kiss him again with a different set of lips. Derek jerks off all over Stiles's chest at the end, smears his come across Stiles's chest and rubs his nose in it in a way that should be seriously gross, but is instead obscenely, tragically hot—tragically because there's _no way_ Stiles is getting it up again anytime soon.

"Nrgh," he mumbles while Derek unties him and Jen chafes his wrists and ankles. The marks the rope left behind are red; they'll be bruises tomorrow, purple to match the ones that Jen and, later, Derek left on his throat. "That was—" Stiles tries again. "That was, uh, it was good."

"Get used to it," Jen says, scooting up until she's tucked beneath his arm.

Derek pulls the sheets and duvet up over them, then stretches out along Stiles's side. Stiles turns his head to the side, wanting—but he's so content and sleepy and fucked out, he can't move further even though there's no longer anything to stop him. "Derek?" Stiles is so out of it, Derek's name doesn't even sound like a word at all, just sounds spilling out of his mouth like water from a tumbled vase.

That doesn't seem to be a problem for Derek, though; he leans in for a kiss, the brush of his lips against Stiles's as sweet and soft as a breath.

Outside, the sky's gone from dusk to full dark, the waning moon throwing a pale rectangle of light across the bed. Stiles takes Derek's hand beneath the covers, finds Jen's, too, tangles their fingers together. He's safe and loved, here in the dark, enveloped and surrounded, and he doesn't fight the gentle pull of sleep: the morning's soon enough to start their next big adventure.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's the end. By which I mean, I keep writing fluffy kidfic, goddammit, but this is the end of the actual story arc. 
> 
> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Homecoming](https://archiveofourown.org/works/880189) by [Jinxy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxy/pseuds/Jinxy)




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